


Call It What You Want

by hannahberrie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Coming Out, Fix-It, Flirting, M/M, One Shot, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sharing a Bed, sloppy kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 11:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahberrie/pseuds/hannahberrie
Summary: They’re just staring at each other in the middle of a crowded New York train station, and it’s almost midnight. There’s supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight, according to the forecast, but Eddie can’t really remember that right now.In which, after separating from Myra, Eddie goes to stay at Richie's place in Manhatten.





	Call It What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> So I went and saw Chapter 2 for the second time last night and immediately sat down afterward and started writing this mess because I had no other outlet for my emotions whelp.
> 
> Maybe one day I’ll stop writing fics about Reddie cuddling in rainstorms but evidently today ain’t it!!

The minute Eddie steps off the train, his eyes land on Richie. He’s impossible to miss considering how obnoxiously tall he is and the way he starts waving like a dork the moment he sees Eddie.

“Eddie!” He calls out excitedly, “Eds! Eddie!”

“I see you, idiot!” Eddie says affectionately as he wheels his suitcases, one in each hand, over to Richie.

Richie’s bouncing on his feet, looking like an excited puppy. “I’m just happy you’re here!” he smiles, “Don’t gotta be a bitch about it.”

“Sorry,” Eddie smiles back.

It’s so weird seeing Richie in person again. The last time had been in the hospital, which must have been what? Three months ago? Four? Shit, maybe five. Either way, it’d been too long. Talking on the phone and texting like a couple of teenagers wasn’t enough. Eddie couldn’t help but worry that, despite everything, Richie would start to forget about him.

They’re just staring at each other in the middle of a crowded New York train station, and it’s almost midnight. There’s supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight, according to the forecast, but Eddie can’t really remember that right now.

Richie swallows before raising a hand to gently cup Eddie’s cheek. “Looks like you’re healing up good,” Richie remarks, voice casual and light as he runs his thumb over Eddie’s scar.

Eddie tries not to think about how his skin grows warmer under Richie’s touch. “Thanks. I’m just lucky that I didn’t get fucking tetanus from Bowers’ knife.”

“You’re just lucky you’re even alive,” Richie replies, and he tries to say it like it’s a joke, but his voice breaks off at the end, and they both feel the weight of it.

“Jesus,” Eddie says, clearing his throat and gently nudging Richie away, “I’ve only been here 30 seconds and you’re already getting soft on me, Tozier.”

“Never!” Richie says, straightening up before adding with a smirk, “I’m never soft.”

“Gross.”

“If you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I’m talking about my dick.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Richie lets out a long sigh and drapes an arm over Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s been real lonely without you, Eds. I’ve just had to tell all of my amazing jokes to myself.”

“What about all your fans?” Eddie asks dryly, leaning ever-so-slightly into Richie’s touch. It’s October, it’s cold out, and Richie’s warm; sue him.

“Tour’s over for the season,” Richie shrugs, “_Someone _suggested that I write my own material, so it’s back to the drawing board for me.” He points a finger gun to his head and mimes pulling the trigger to show just how excited he is about the prospect.

Eddie can’t help but feel a little swoop of glee in his gut at the idea of Richie being home with Eddie most of the time. “Oh,” he says, making sure to sound like he doesn’t really care. Then again, he shouldn’t get too excited; it’s not like he’d be living with Richie for long, it was just until the divorce got worked out.

“Lucky you, right?” Richie winks.

“Sure,” Eddie says wryly.

People continue to pass by them, and the sounds of honking taxis and screeching city buses are starting to get to Eddie. After living in the suburbs of New York for nearly two decades, he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to be in the city at night. Everything feels like it’s thrumming with energy and life despite the late hour.

“Can we head back to your place?” Eddie yawns, “That train ride was so fucking long.”

“And what? Go to sleep? No way! We’re 40, not 80. Let’s stay out a little longer.”

“But I’m tired! That train ride was brutal, man! We got stopped _twice _for maintenance, then some homeless guy refused to pay to get on, and—“

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough night,” Richie cuts in, “All the more reason to get drunk. Let’s get a drink, I know a place.”

“What about my suitcases?”

“We’ll bring them along with, they’ll love it. C’mon.”

And then Richie’s grabbing one of Eddie’s suitcases with one hand, and pulling Eddie’s hand with the other, and Eddie’s tired of pretending he wants to say no.

* * *

They’re seated across each other in a grimy dive bar. Even though the place is probably violating a thousand health codes, Eddie can’t help but enjoy the atmosphere. It’s dim, but strips of neon lights line the ceiling, making Eddie feel like he’s in some cheesy music video. There’s classic rock playing over the speakers and framed photos of celebrities who drank here hanging on the walls. Eddie spots one of Richie; he’s wearing a tackily-pattered shirt and holding up a stein of beer with a goofy grin on his face.

Eddie wants to know the story behind it. How Richie learned about this place, how often he came here, who he came with. Back when they were kids, they knew everything about each other, from their favorite video games to what their moms were making for dinner. Now, parts of Richie are entirely foreign to Eddie, and he’s not sure how to understand his (ex?) best friend now.

“W-Wait!” Richie giggles, wiping at his eyes, “So, what’d you say again?”

Eddie’s fairly certain that Richie’s laugh could cure cancer. It’s practically contagious — he finds himself grinning along as he tries to tell his story, even though he hadn’t meant for it to be funny.

“I told her to fuck off,” Eddie smiles, taking a sip of his drink. It’s cheap beer and kinda tastes like watery apple juice, but it’s making him feel funny and confident, so he keeps going.

Richie giggles against the rim of his drink. “Fuck! I would have paid good money to see that!”

“I’m sure,” Eddie snorts.

The suitcases are shoved under the table, keeping their legs from touching each other. It’s a quiet night, considering it’s just a Wednesday; there’s only a few groups of other patrons scattered through the bar, all engrossed in their own conversation.

Richie’s glasses reflect the lights around him, casting his face in pink and blue. “So like,” he says, taking another sizable gulp of his drink, “What was the breaking point? You finally had enough of her cutting the crusts off your PB and J’s?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie points at him.

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Richie jokes easily, causing Eddie to choke on his drink.

“W-What?”

“I’m kidding!” Richie quickly adds, and it’s too dark in here to tell if he’s really blushing, or if Eddie’s just imagining it.

Eddie grips the handle of his stein a little tighter and forces a laugh. “Right, okay.”

They drink in silence for a few moments before Eddie remembers that Richie asked him a question. “Anyway,” he continues, “I don’t know. I guess…after I got home, everything felt different, you know?”

“Getting gutted by a demon alien clown will do that to ya’,” Richie says humorlessly, slouching back in his seat.

“Well, yeah, obviously. It was just so hard to go back to pretending like everything was normal, you know?”

“Yeah…” Richie doesn’t meet his gaze. “I know.”

More silence that Eddie cannot understand.

“So, what, you’re like, separated now?” Richie asks.

“I guess,” Eddie shrugs, but when the words leave his mouth, he really _feels _them for the first time, as relieving and reassuring as puffs from his inhaler were back in the day. “Just got to file the paperwork and hire a lawyer before it’ll be official.” He hesitates, before asking, “What about you? Do you, uh, have anyone?”

Richie smiles.

“And don’t make a joke about my mom, asshole!”

Richie pouts. Eddie watches as he thinks over his words, rubbing a hand over his jaw tiredly. “Uh, no, I don’t. I guess—“ He swallows thickly, looks toward the wall, “—Being repressed your whole life tends to fuck up your relationships.”

“Repressed?” Eddie frowns, “What do you—“

Richie gives him a pointed look, and _oh_ _shit_.

“B-But how?” Eddie sputters.

Richie raises an eyebrow, giving him an amused look. “How? What, you want the logistics of it, man?”

“I just mean — you’re the one always making jokes about girls and shit.”

“Guess I didn’t want anyone to know,” Richie says, and he suddenly looks nervous and a little ashamed. Eddie wonders if he’s told anyone else.

“Well,” Eddie says after he’s taken a moment to process it all, “I’m, uh, proud of you, Rich.”

Richie looks surprised. “You are? You don’t think I’m like, gross and shit?”

“I mean, I do,” Eddie teases, “But not because of that.”

“Aww,” Richie says sarcastically, but the smile that breaks across his face is one of the cutest things Eddie’s ever seen.

Eddie thinks about Myra, and thinks about Richie being gay, and about how happy he is to be here right now. He takes a breath and raises his glass. “To figuring out what we want,” he suggests.

“Well, I’ll drink to that,” Richie grins, raising his glass.

Eddie grins back and clinks his drink against Richie’s. They both toss their beers back, and then they make eye contact. Richie gives him a smirk, silently challenging him, and then it’s _on, _and they’re both doing their best to chug the rest of their beers down in one go.

They finish their drinks within seconds of each other, both slamming their glasses down on the table triumphantly.

“I fucking pwned you!” Richie exclaims.

“Pwned?” Eddie says back, and his voice is loud and he doesn’t care, “What are you, 12? And I beat _you, _dickwad!”

“The hell you did!”

“I _did!” _

The lights are pink and blue, and Richie’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he laughs, and Eddie has never felt more free than in this moment.

* * *

Eddie’s still full of adrenaline as he walks through the front door of Richie’s New York apartment with a suitcase in each hand. It’s long after midnight and his mind is buzzy and light thanks to the drinks, and thanks to the rush of accepting that he finally left his overbearing mother of a wife.

“Thanks again for letting me crash here, Rich,” He says as he set his suitcases down in the hallway.

Richie enters behind him, very tall and sporting a very prominent five o'clock shadow (or would it be a 1 AM shadow, at this point?).

“No problem, Eds; mi casa es su casa.”

Eddie walks around Richie’s penthouse curiously. For a stand-up comic, Richie’s done pretty well for himself, to say the least. His living room, lined with ceiling-tall windows, has a spectacular view of Central Park, and there’s a couch that looks heavenly and a TV that’s boastfully huge. Richie doesn’t seem to be big on decor, but he’s got some things scattered about on coffee tables and bookshelves; awards he’s won, lots of comedies on DVD, and a couple of succulents — which makes Eddie smile.

“Pretty sweet, right?” Richie smirks.

Eddie turns to look back at him. “It’s fine,” he says dismissively.

“Fuck off, dude,” Richie says without malice, and he steps forward and ruffles Eddie’s hair before walking toward a hallway. “C’mon, you can have the guest room.”

The guest room is just as impressive as the living room, with a king-sized bed and another great view. Eddie walks over to the bed and sets his suitcases down, running a hand over the sheets. “Dude, this is nice! What’s the thread count on these sheets, like 800?”

“How the fuck would I know that?” Richie giggles, “The fuck’s that even mean?”

“So, what, you don’t write your own jokes, and you don’t even buy your own sheets?”

“Nope,” Richie says smugly, and Eddie kinda wants to hit him.

Or, you know, just have an excuse to touch him, but that’s irrelevant.

Richie runs a hand through his hair and eyes Eddie. “So, is this okay?”

Eddie nods. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me all the time,” Richie mumbles, but he’s looking pleased as he leaves Eddie to turn in for the night.

Eddie turns to unpack his things with a content warmth in his chest. Outside, it begins to rain.

* * *

He dreams of blood.

_Pouring blood, gallons of blood, blood that is thick and clotting and hot. He’s lying over Richie, and they’re back in the cistern, and there’s so much blood. _

_He looks down, and then he sees that he doesn’t have a stomach — he doesn’t have a fucking stomach! Instead, a gaping hole, and blood. And the world goes hazy, and Richie is whimpering his name — _

_And then, nothing. _

* * *

Eddie wakes up violently, breath constricted and heart racing. He sits up in bed and curses as he clutches his stomach. His scar is burning brilliantly with white-hot pain even more than the one on his hand had when Bill called him.

A part of him naively thought the nightmares would stop once he was back with one of the Losers — stronger together, and all that. But, obviously not.

He blames himself. His risk-analyst-mind couldn’t stop replaying the final fight over and over again, thinking of all the ways it could’ve gone wrong, all the ways he could have died, all the ways Ben, Bev, Mike, Bill, or Richie could’ve died. And the fucking worst thing of all is that he doesn’t even have a good reason for this; he was never in the deadlights like Bev or Richie, and they all survived. And yet, all he feels is scared. He’s still so scared after everything, and it makes him fear that maybe he’ll never stop being scared.

He thinks of how proud Richie looked — holding his cheeks, holding his gaze — when he told Eddie that he was brave. If only Richie could see him now, shaking in bed like a fucking kid.

Outside, it’s a downpour. The rain falls against the looming windows of the guest bedroom in winding streams that blur the lights of the city beyond.

_The city that never sleeps, _Eddie thinks nonsensically as he stares at the blurry lights. 

He won’t be able to go back to sleep, and he doesn’t want to, so he gets out of bed. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, so he sleepily wanders through Richie’s apartment in his pajamas until he finds himself in the kitchen.

Which is, to be frank, kinda disgusting. The kitchen itself is perfectly impressive; marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, the whole nine yards. But clearly, whoever supposedly buys Richie’s sheets hasn’t bothered to help him out here. There are dishes piled up in the sink, a completely stiff dishcloth lying on the counter, right beside an empty pizza box.

_“Are you fucking kidding me?” _Eddie mutters. But this is good. As he focuses his energy on being annoyed at Richie’s lifestyle, he stops thinking about his fears. This is something he can handle, can _fix. _He digs through the kitchen cabinets until he finds where Richie keeps the cleaning supplies and gets to work.

He gets a new dishcloth out, wipes away crumbs, and does the dishes. He throws out takeout boxes and checks his fridge to make sure that nothing’s expired. It’s its own kind of lame therapy, and Eddie’s happy that he also gets to learn a lot about Richie in the process. Like how he still eats _Cap'n Crunch_ cereal at 40 years old, or that he owns mugs dedicated to several cities — _probably collected from all his tours,_ Eddie thinks.

It’s weird to think that, technically speaking, he’s in a celebrity’s house right now. Like, Richie has his own fucking Netflix specials and everything, and was arguably the best part of SNL back when he was on. Eddie remembers all the nights he spent watching Richie’s stuff on TV, not sure why he enjoyed his comedy so much, but drawn to it all the same.

It’s hard to ever think of Richie as that though — a _famous person. _To Eddie, he’ll always be the gangly kid in glasses who shared ice cream cones with him and pinched his cheeks on the playground.

He’s just finishing up the last of the dishes when he hears footsteps. Eddie turns around quickly, panic spiking, before he sees that it’s only Richie. He’s bare-chested and wearing a pair of well-worn pajama pants that have probably seen better days. They hug his frame nicely though, not that it matters.

“Eddie?” Richie mumbles, sleepy and disoriented, “What the fuck?”

Eddie drains the water in the sink and dries his hands on a towel. “Your kitchen is disgusting!” He snaps, resting his hands on the island, “I don’t know how you live like this.”

“I was gonna clean it in the morning,” Richie whines, lifting his glasses and rubbing at his eyes, “Before you woke up. Why the fuck are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Eddie says after a second of hesitation. He doesn’t want to tell Richie about the nightmares — he’d probably be so disappointed in Eddie. 

“So why are you cleaning my kitchen? It’s like, 3 AM,” Riche yawns, “That’s like the fucking witching hour, man. I think you’re possessed or some shit.”

“I’m not possessed!” Eddie frowns, “I just couldn’t sleep, okay, asshole?”

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Because you’re possessed?”

“No!”

“You want me to call a priest? I know a guy.”

“I don’t need a fucking priest—“

“Kinda sounds like what a possessed person would say, Eds.”

“I had a fucking nightmare!” Eddie finally bursts. His knuckles are white from gripping the island so tightly, and as embarrassed as he is to admit it, there’s something cathartic about finally admitting the truth, too.

Richie’s silent, and for several moments, there’s nothing to hear except the sound of the rain and thunder, and the faucet slowly dripping.

“About what happened?” Richie finally says.

Eddie’s mouth tightens into a thin line as he nods.

More silence, and then —

“I get them too.”

Eddie pauses, brows raising in surprise. “You do?”

Richie nods back. “They fucking suck, man.”

“Shit, they do…I thought they’d stop, but…”

“That’d be too easy,” Richie finishes, giving him a wry look.

Eddie breathes out through his nose, unable to laugh fully. “Yeah.”

Richie looks Eddie up and down for a moment, and Eddie suddenly feels self-conscious, even though he’s just wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants.

“Well,” Richie says slowly, rocking back and forth on his feet a little, “If you want, you could sleep with me.”

Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Not like that, weirdo!” Richie quickly says, looking flustered, “I just mean…there’d be room for both of us. And it’d probably be easier to sleep knowing we had each other’s backs and shit.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, settling down, “…Uh, yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“I mean, if you _wanted _to sleep with me though,” Richie says, voice drifting off teasingly.

Eddie feels himself blush, something he hasn’t done since…

…Since the last time he hung out with Richie, actually. “Stop talking before I change my mind,” he says, making sure to nudge Richie as he walks past him.

Richie nudges him right back before taking the lead and guiding them both to his bedroom. The whole thing is so juvenile, Eddie flashes back to when they were 13 and fighting over who got to sit in the hammock. The memory is so vivid, and yet it seems like it was both yesterday and a lifetime ago.

Richie’s room isn’t dissimilar to the guest room — just bigger and with more shit lying around. Richie crawls into bed, turning to Eddie with an eager smile and patting the empty space beside him.

“We’re really going to have to work on your organizational skills,” Eddie says as he walks closer, eyeing the laundry on the floor.

“Sexy.”

“Shut up.”

Eddie carefully crawls into bed with Richie, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. Because it’s definitely been 27 years since he and Richie shared a bed. And, of course, it was different back then. Back then, it was sleepovers with their friends, it was bickering about who didn’t want to sleep on the floor, it was Eddie drifting off with his fingertips brushing against Richie’s.

Now, the air seems to pop and hum with electricity, like the lull before a lightning strike. Eddie tries not to think about how Richie’s not wearing a shirt, and how he’s no longer gangly and loose-limbed. Instead, he’s broad and scruffy in a way that Eddie’s seen described as #dadbod on pictures of Richie on Twitter. He’s got fucking chest hair — something his 13-year-old self would have been undoubtedly thrilled about.

There are so many more possibilities now for how this night could go, Eddie realizes as he stares at the ceiling.

_Fuck me yourself, coward. _

_I mean, if you wanted to sleep with me though..._

But it doesn’t mean anything, right? That’s how Richie always joked with him; joked with everyone. He made his career on telling crude jokes, and just because he told them to Eddie and came out to Eddie doesn’t mean he wants Eddie specifically. In fact, it’d probably be super problematic of him to just assume that because Richie was gay, that he was also gay for Eddie —

“You know what’s crazy?” Richie says, cutting off Eddie’s train of thought.

Eddie turns his head and is greeted with Richie’s profile. He’s also looking at the ceiling and his glasses are off. “What?”

“The fact that for like, 20 years basically, we lived like an hour apart and didn’t know it.”

Eddie swallows and lies back on the pillows again. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up.”

“I just, I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten you,” Richie continues, and his voice sounds like it did back at the train station: staggering and raw.

“It’s okay, Rich, I did too. We all did.”

“Yeah, but it’s different with us.”

Eddie doesn’t have to ask what he means. The long hugs goodbye, the endless bickering, the cautious touches; it’s always been different with them, always more. “I know,” he admits, voice so quiet it’s barely heard over the rain.

“I mean, things could’ve been different,” Richie mutters, and Eddie’s suddenly unsure if he’s talking more to Eddie or himself.

“Different how?”

“I don’t fucking know. Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten married, for one. Maybe it could’ve been us, you know?”

Eddie kinda wants to cry at that. “You’re drunk,” He whispers, “You’re so fucking drunk.”

“I’m not fucking drunk! I had like, three beers, and that was hours ago.” Without warning, Richie sits up and hovers over Eddie, resting a hand on the bed by each side of Eddie’s head.

Their faces are closer than Eddie was prepared for. He does his best to steady his breathing as he looks up at Richie in the dark.

“I’m trying to be serious!” Richie insists, looking him straight in the eyes.

Eddie’s heart is starting to beat faster. “That’s a first,” he says nervously.

Richie looks at him with such seriousness, that Eddie quickly shuts up.

Richie hesitates. “I...I’m...Eds...the thing is...”

“Don’t,” Eddie says, closing his eyes, “Don’t say it.” Because he knows what’s coming next; maybe a part of him has always known, deep down, even after all this time.

Richie sounds wounded when he speaks. “Why?”

“Because!” Eddie bursts, and then he’s looking at the ceiling and trying not to laugh in exasperation, “I’m not what you think.”

“The fuck’s that mean?”

“I’m not brave,” Eddie says, and he hates how pathetic he sounds, “I know I did all that shit with Pennywise like you said, but I’m still scared. I’m still scared, Rich. I didn’t even go in the fucking deadlights and all I can think about is losing you and it’s fucked up, man! And I was so scared that I married my fucking mom and I’m scared that you’ll—you...”

“That I what?” Richie asks. He raises a hand and cups Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie forces himself not to melt into the touch.

“I don’t know!” Eddie deflects, feeling embarrassed, “Grow sick of me? I mean, you’re this huge fucking star or whatever the hell and I’m just _me_. I’m just still that same fucking scared kid, and I just don’t see why you’d ever want someone like...like me.”

Seconds that feel like hours pass as Richie takes this in. And then—

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie says slowly, raising his eyes to meet Eddie’s, “You are literally the dumbest bitch I know.”

Eddie scowls, self-doubt quickly dissolving into irritation. “What the fuck? Don’t call me a bi—“ But then Richie’s kissing him, and he forgets how to think.

Though kissing is an understatement. Richie’s cupping both of his cheeks now, and the kiss he’s giving Eddie is messy yet firm and feels like the fireworks Eddie’s always heard about, but never experienced until now. It’s a kiss over 27 years in the making, one that Eddie had barely even allowed himself to dream of.

Without stopping to second-guess anything, he’s wrapping his arms around Richie’s waist, and his lips are parting, and then Richie’s right _there._ A part of him feared it’d feel gross, having someone else’s tongue in his mouth — he’d certainly never let Myra do it — but Richie knows what he’s doing. Like, infinitely so.

He absentmindedly moves his hands over Richie, palms spread flat as they feel the planes of his chest. Richie hums in satisfaction against Eddie’s lips, and kisses him even harder. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Eddie thinks, _this is actually happening; this is _finally_ happening. _

Richie pulls back to bite down on Eddie’s lower lip, and Eddie lets out a soft whimper that causes Richie to curse under his breath.

When Richie eventually pulls back, a thin strand of spit breaks between them, and Eddie is somehow both thoroughly disgusted and enthralled at the same time.

He blinks up at Richie, dazed and light-headed. “R-Richie? Wha—“

“I can’t believe you don’t get it,” Richie complains, but he sounds so happy, so blissfully, stupidly happy,

“Get what?”

“I’m in love with you, dipshit.”

“Oh.” Eddie feels his face flush with a sudden shyness. “I swear to god; If you’re fucking with me-“

“I’m not fucking with you,” Richie insists, before adding with a wink, “Yet.”

“Oh my god.”

“If you catch my drift.”

“It’d literally be impossible to not —“

“I’m talking about boning down.”

“‘Boning down?’ Are you kidding me? You are 40!” Eddie laughs, but he’s _laughing_, and he’s never been more relieved _because Richie Tozier is in love with him_.

“You’d still go for it,” Richie grins, poking Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie both hates and loves that he’s not wrong.

Eddie leans up and kisses Richie’s cheek, because he’s pretty sure he can do that now. “Shut up,” then, “Why me?”

“Fuck if I knew,” Richie says, kissing Eddie’s forehead, “I mean, you’re not wrong: you are kinda fucking insane. I dunno who the hell actually wakes up at 3 AM to go all Marie Kondo on my kitchen.”

Eddie pouts and raises a hand to swat at Richie, but Richie catches it and kisses his knuckles.

“But I love you, Eddie,” Richie says in between kisses, “It’s always been you, idiot. Only you.”

Andddd yup, it’s official: with that, Richie has officially ruined Eddie for anyone else. He can’t see himself ever falling for someone else, or crashing here for a few weeks before taking off. Richie’s finally in his life again, and he’s here to stay, the-fucking-end.

Eddie kisses Richie’s nose. “Guess you’re not so much of a Trashmouth, huh?” He smiles.

“I can still talk about how much I wanna fuck your brains out, if that’d help.”

Eddie shakes his head and pulls Richie closer so that he’s laying on top of him (carefully though; his scar is still there — a reminder of what could’ve been, of how important it is to hold onto the people you love most).

“Richie?” He whispers, lips brushing against Richie’s.

“Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> (I know Marie Kondo's TV show didn't come out until this year but apparently she published a book back in 2014 so don't @ me okay maybe Richie just likes reading idk). 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are super appreciated, like so much.


End file.
